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LITTLE SAINT HILARY 


AND OTHER STORIES 


GOLDEN-ROD STORIES 


By Barbara Yechton. 


IN NEAT PAPER COVERS. 


1, Little Saint Hilary, 

2. Banks — and Banks, 


Price, 10 cents. 
“ 10 cents. 


3. Two Kinds of Saints, . , 11 10 cents. 

4. “ These Little Ones,” . . “ 10 cents. 

5. In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer, “ 10 cents. 

The above supplied at $i.oo per dozen, assorted. 

THOMAS WHITTAKER, 

PUBLISHER, 

2 AND 3 BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK. 





































































































* 








" St. Hilary would weave stories which Humphrey thought beautiful.” 

• (Page 6.) 


Little Saint Hilary 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 


BARBARA YECHTON 



author of “Christine’s inspiration,” " ingleside,” “ ‘ 
heart' stories," etc. 


.E- 



ILLUSTRATED BY MINNA BROWN 


“ Stronger than steel 
Is the Sword of the Spirit ; 

Swifter than arrows 
The life of the truth is, 

Greater than anger 
Is love, and subduethf— Longfellow 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS WHITTAKER 

2 and 3 Bible House 


Copyright, 1893, 

BY 

THOMAS WHITTAKER. 









(glffecftonafelg ©e&tcafeb fo mg Snen?> 

MRS. CHARLES S. HOMER 
FOR OLD ACQUAINTANCE SAKE 



CONTENTS, 


/ n. 

/ III. 

V IV - 


J 


V. 


LITTLE SAINT HILARY. 

BANKS— AND BANKS. 

TWO KINDS OF SAINTS. 

“ THESE LITTLE ONES.” 

IN THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER. 

















Perhaps you think this a queer name for a 
little boy? You will think it still queerer when 
I tell you that he was christened Hugh Marma- 
duke Lascelles Dunscombe, though only his 
mamma called him Hugh. He lived in Eng- 
land, and as his father was an earl and this little 
boy was his eldest son, his title was viscount St. 
Hilary; so his family and little friends called 
him St. Hilary. 

He was a slender, delicate boy, with a pale face, 
expressive dark blue eyes, and long yellow curls, 
which papa constantly threatened to cut off. He 
was quiet of manner, and some people thought 
him cold of disposition, but these people did not 
know him at all, for he passionately loved his 
big, handsome father, his delicate, fair mother, 


4 


Little Saint Hilary. 


his baby sister, and best of all his beautiful 
brother and constant playmate, Humphrey. 

Humphrey was fully as tall as St. Hilary, 
though a little more than a year younger. He 
was strong and well formed, carrying his head 
like a little prince. His eyes were large, chang- 
ing from dark brown to light yellow. He, too, 
had long curls, but of a ruddy color that actually 
glittered in the sunlight. He could run and 
jump and ride in a fashion that won admiration 
from St. Hilary, for very little exertion tired him, 
and sometimes he would say wistfully, “ Oh ! 
Humph, how splendid it must be to run and 
jump and play as you do, and never get tired. 
I wish I could do it instead of being such a 
molly-coddle.” 

Then Humphrey would give him a bear’s hug, 
rubbing his rosy cheek against his brother’s pale 
one, with — “And I wish I could learn my les- 
sons as easily as you do yours, and be able to 
make up such beautiful stories as you can. 
Anybody can ride and jump. You know your- 
self papa called me a dunce the other day, 
though you felt worse about it than I did.” 


Little Saint Hilary, 5 

The boys were inseparable, and when Humph- 
rey in the excess of high spirits and good health 
got St. Hilary into scrapes, the latter bore pun- 
ishment with Spartan-like fortitude rather than 
tell on him, while Humphrey would sooner be 
punished twice over than see his brother suffer. 
Their interests were so closely interwoven, and 
the home life so guarded, that Humphrey up to 
this time had not realized that St. Hilary was 
any better off or in any way of more importance 
in the world than himself; in fact, his love for 
his brother was unconsciously largely tinged 
with pity for the physical weakness that de- 
barred him from many enjoyments, and envy 
or jealousy of his delicate elder brother would 
have seemed impossible. He was very willful 
and quick-tempered, giving way when angry to 
such outbursts of rage as astonished everyone, 
grieving and frightening his mother, while his 
father looked very serious on such occasions. 
These fits of temper did not last long, and his 
penitence was always most sincere, but as his 
papa said, gravely, “The mischief was all done 
then.” 


6 


Little Saint Hilary. 


Humphrey looked very like one of the pictures 
that hung in the eastern gallery, — a dark, hand- 
some man with powdered hair and a rose in his 
gay satin coat. His likeness to it made the 
picture a favorite one with both little boys. The 
original of it had been a Rupert Everard Duns- 
combe, this much they knew, but neither father 
nor mother said much about him, while nurse 
spoke very crossly when they asked her. 
“ There’s plenty pictures in the gall’ry to look at 
without troubling your heads about that one,” 
she said. The children’s interest deepened more 
than ever, and when Humphrey could be in- 
duced to stay indoors they would sit on- the deep 
window seat under the large stained-glass win- 
dow, within good sight of Rupert’s picture, and 
with the slender knowledge to go on that he had 
been a soldier, St. Hilary would weave stories 
which Humphrey thought beautiful. 

The stained window was also a source of great 
pleasure to them. The colors were very rich; 
when the sun shone on it the coat-of-arms and 
the inscription below it were a vivid bit of color 
in the quiet gallery. St. Hilary had long ago 


Little Saint Hilary. 


7 


spelled out the motto and learned its meaning — 
Qui patitur vincit — “Who endures, conquers.” 
His papa said it was a motto that the Duns- 
combes ought to keep well in memory, as they 
all had quick tempers, and a victory over one’s 
temper was more of a victory than any other, 
and made one stronger when the next temptation 
came. He spoke very seriously, and Humphrey 
fancied he looked at him. 

These remarks impressed the little fellow, 
and the next time he got angry Humphrey 
ran away into the grounds to try to conquer 
himself. Lying flat on the grass he kicked 
and rolled, with clinched hands, until the parox- 
ysm of rage was over; rising to go home he 
was surprised to see St. Hilary sitting near 
under a tree, such a look of sympathy and love 
on his patient face that Humphrey ran to him, 
and throwing both arms about him, cried, 
“ Saintie, you’re the very best boy I ever heard 
of. Oh! I wish I were just like you. I’m 
so afraid I’ll always be naughty, and then no- 
body will love me.” 

St. Hilary’s kisses and warm assurances that 


8 


Little Saint Hilary. 


he would always love him were very comforting, 
and for some time after this Humphrey tried 
very hard to control his temper, succeeding so 
well that both his papa and mamma felt much 
encouraged about him. 

One day, not long after this, the children were 
allowed to go to the kennels to see some new 
dogs which had just arrived. The hounds were 
very fine animals, and the boys greatly admired 
them, asking many questions. An old man sat 
on a stone bench near by, looking closely at the 
children ; presently, when the keeper left them 
for a few minutes, he said to Humphrey — “Coom 
here, my little lord St. Hilary, it’s a true Duns- 
combe ye be, straight as a lance and red as a 
rose. An’ where did yon pale face coom fra’?” 

The tone of voice made Humphrey color up. 
“ He is St. Hilary,” he answered, touching his 
brother, “ and I am Humphrey.” 

“ Maw’s the pity,” cried the old man, shaking 
his head. “An’ ye the very image o’ Black Ru- 
pert.” 

“ Do you know about him ? ” eagerly cried 
both boys. “ Oh ! tell us.” 


Little Saint Hilary. 


9 


The old man looked at them from under his 
grey eyebrows ; he was flattered by their inter- 
est. “ It’s na’ a pleasant story,” he began. “ In 
those days, St. Hilary an’ Black Rupert were 
brothers. St. Hilary was lame and pale — na’ 
more like a Dunscombe than yon weak boy — 
but Rupert was a rare ma’ for good looks, only 
he had the Dunscombe temper, an’ when he was 
crossed his rage was fearful. The estate was 
na’ sae rich as it is noo, an’ when they grew up 
all the money an’ the titles went to St. Hilary. 
He was properlike an’ had sma’ patience wi’ his 
younger brother, an’ one day — nabody knows 
wha’ for — they fell a-quar’lin’ an’ Rupert raised 
his han’ agin his brother an’ nigh killed him ! 
He had to run awa’ to furrin parts. Ye look like 
Rupert, an’ ye’re a second son. Beware lest ye 
an’ this St. Hilary come to fightin’.” 

The horror expressed on both small, upraised 
faces reached even his blunted faculties, and he 
paused. 

“You’re a bad man,” cried Humphrey, angrily, 
clinching his hands, “ to think I could ever 
wish to kill my dear, dear brother, St. Hilary. 


IO 


Little Saint Hilary. 


I love him better than anything else in the 
world.” 

St. Hilary stood pale and silent, a startled 
look in his eyes. Just then Wilson appeared. 
“ What have you been saying to the young gen- 
tlemen, gaffer ? ” he asked, sharply, then to the 
boys — “ Don’t mind anything he says, young 
masters, he’s very old and foolish and doesn’t 
know what he is talking about.” 

The boys walked silently up to the house ; 
when they got in the big hall St. Hilary sudden- 
ly put his arms around Humphrey and squeezed 
him tight. “ We couldrtt be like Black Rupert 
and his brother. We love each other too dearly. 
Try not to think of it again, Humph.” 

“I’m like him when I get angry,” said 
Humphrey, with quivering lips. “ No matter 
how hard I try, Saintie, it seems to take right 
hold of me, and I feel as if I could do dreadful 
things — ” he broke away and ran upstairs. 

After this St. Hilary loved his brother more 
than ever, if that were possible. He gave up to 
him in everything until his parents noticed it 
and his papa spoke to him about it. The boy’s 


Little Saint Hilary. n 

answer startled him a great deal : “ I don’t 

mind doing it, papa, I love Humph so dearly. 
You see, he is so strong and handsome he ought 
to have been the heir instead of me, and I’m try- 
ing to make it up to him.” 

This view of the matter was an unexpected 
one, and the earl thought it best to speak very 
seriously to his eldest son. He tried to make 
him understand that God was the One who had 
made him the heir, as best suited to fill the posi- 
tion, and that the only injury he was doing his 
brother was by giving in too much to him and 
thus indulging his self-will. He said it would 
be best for both boys that St. Hilary’s rights 
should be clearly understood between them. 
This made St. Hilary feel so badly, and he 
pleaded so earnestly that it might not be done 
just yet, that much against his better judgment 
his father consented. This glimpse into his little 
son’s heart affected him very much, and there 
were tears in his eyes when he told his wife 
their conversation. 

During the summer their cousin, Gerald 
Annesley, came to spend a few days with them. 


12 


Little Saint Hilary. 


It was his first visit, and the boys were delighted 
to have him. He was nearly two years older 
than St. Hilary, but both being fond of books 
they found a great deal to talk about, and after 
one or two days, in spite of all that St. Hilary 
could do, Humphrey began to feel neglected. 
Never had he so envied St. Hilary’s love of 
books as when he realized that his own indiffer- 
ence to them made Gerald regard him as a child. 
He talked about things that had not hitherto in- 
terested the younger boy, rather making light of 
Humphrey’s accomplishments in the way of 
strength and activity. St. Hilary was divided 
between the politeness due a guest, one whom 
he very much admired, and his desire to have 
his brother show to advantage. On the third 
day the three boys went fishing; an under- 
keeper went with them, and for a while they 
enjoyed their occupation. Then Gerald began 
telling St. Hilary in a low voice about his big 
brother’s first experience at a boys’ school where 
he himself expected to be sent later on. 
Humphrey would dearly have liked to hear it 
all, but Gerald turned quite round to St. Hilary 


Little Saint Hilary. 


13 


so that only a word now and then reached the 
fisherman on his right. 

It was the first time that anyone had diverted 
his brother’s attention entirely from himself; a 
storm of jealousy arose in Humphrey’s heart 
and he began to blame St. Hilary. Why didn’t 
he tell Gerald to turn round and include him in 
the conversation? St. Hilary wasn’t treating 
him well; he wouldn’t stay where he was not 
wanted. His face got very red, his good reso- 
lutions all slipped away; he felt a paroxysm of 
rage coming on, and throwing down his rod he 
started along the bank. 

St. Hilary caught a glimpse of his face as he 
turned away, and leaving Gerald without a word 
he ran after his brother, gaining rapidly on him. 

“Stop, Humph,” he cried, “I want to speak 
to you.” 

“ Go away,” answered Humphrey, angrily, but 
St. Hilary was near enough now to throw his 
arm across his shoulders. The touch seemed to 
infuriate the angry boy; he shook off St. Hil- 
ary’s touch and pushed him roughly from him, 
crying, “ Go back to your friend Gerald.” They 


14 


Little Saint Hilary. 


were near the edge of the bank ; the elder boy’s 
foot slipped under the sudden shock of the rough 
push and he fell backward into the stream. 
With a horrified shriek that rang on the air, 
Humphrey sprang after him. For a moment 
they appeared on the surface of the water, St. 
Hilary’s head lying on his brother’s shoulder 
while the latter held him up, then they disap- 
peared. The keeper dashed to the rescue and 
in a very short time all three were safe on land 
again. But St. Hilary’s eyes did not open and 
he looked very white. Humphrey’s remorse 
was dreadful; he threw himself on the silent 
body, embracing him, kissing him, crying, 
“ Oh ! Saintie, I have killed you in my 
wicked temper.” 

Taking off his fustian coat, the keeper wrapped 
the insensible boy in it, and lifting him in his 
arms they all started for the Hall. Gerald walked 
beside St. Hilary, but Humphrey ran ahead, his 
wet curls streaming behind him, his cap gone, 
and water dripping from his clothes. It was a 
wild little figure with a very miserable face that 
burst into the library, crying, “ I have killed St. 



9 








































































ft 



I 

u Oh ! Saintie, I'm just like Black Rupert — I’ve nearly killed you/' 

(Page 15.) 





Little Saint Hilary. 15 

Hilary! I pushed him into the stream! Oh! 
mamma, mamma!” 

It was a fortunate thing that mamma’s arms 
were so near, for the little fellow’s face grew very 
white as he sunk on her shoulder, while the earl 
hastened to meet the sad procession which by 
this time was in the hall. 

Dr. Cruthers was hastily summoned ; by the 
time he arrived St. Hilary had recovered con- 
sciousness, but extreme quiet was strictly en- 
joined as the next few days would show how 
much mischief had been done by the fall into the 
water. There was such a beseeching expression 
in the sick boy’s eyes that the doctor asked what 
he wanted. “May I see Humph?” was the 
eager question. After some deliberation and 
many cautions they let Humphrey go in. His 
face was pale and his eyes swollen with weeping ; 
falling on his knees by the bedside he said, try- 
ing hard to keep from crying, “ Oh ! Saintie, 
I’m just like Black Rupert — I’ve nearly killed 
you.” 

With an effort St. Hilary raised himself, 
throwing one arm round his brother, and his 


1 6 Little Saint Hilary . 

voice rang out clear and strong : “ Don’t say 

such a thing, Humph ; you didn't push me into 
the river — my foot slipped ; indeed, it was my 
own fault. Please don’t anybody think it was 
Humphrey’s fault, for it wasn’t.” Here his voice 
failed, the doctor interfered, and Humphrey was 
taken away. 

St. Hilary was veiy ill for several days, and 
Humphrey’s grief was so intense that his parents’ 
hearts ached for their little penitent child. When 
at last the doctor declared the danger past and 
Humphrey was allowed to be with St. Hilary, 
their first interview was significant of their differ- 
ent natures. Climbing up on the bed, Humph- 
rey, after kissing his brother warmly several 
times, laid his head on the same pillow with him, 
and snuggling up close, whispered, “ Dear, dar- 
ling old Saintie, it makes me get cold and sick 
to think you might have been drowned by my 
dreadful temper. Can you ever forgive me? ” 

St. Hilary raised himself upon his elbow to 
look into his brother’s eyes. There was an 
expression on his face that reminded Humphrey 
of his father. 


Little Saint Hilary. 


17 


“ There’s nothing to forgive, Humph,” he said, 
decidedly. “ I shall never believe the slight 
touch you gave me had anything to do with my 
fall. I was too near the edge of the bank and 
my foot slipped, that was the whole trouble. 
Now kiss me, and well never, never speak of 
this again.” 

And they never did, but his papa had a 
long talk about it with Humphrey. He spoke 
very seriously and laid very plainly before him 
the terrible consequences that might have re- 
sulted from his giving way to his temper as he 
had. He explained very lovingly but very de- 
cidedly the difference in their worldly positions, 
laying great stress on the deep love the little fel- 
lows felt for each other. “ It is very wrong and 
un-Christ-like to let anger and jealousy into our 
hearts, Humphrey,” concluded his father, “for we 
can never tell to what wicked lengths they will 
take us. Your bad temper is a cross that you 
may have to carry all your life ; it will be very 
heavy sometimes, but there is One Who can give 
you strength to bear it. And remember, dear 
son, if you try to deserve it, a heavenly crown 


i8 


Little Saint Hilary. 


will be your reward one of these days. You 
know ‘ Who endures, conquers.’ ” 

They were sitting in the eastern gallery, and 
just as papa ceased speaking the sun came from 
under a cloud, lighting up the whole window 
and throwing a reflection of the coat-of-arms at 
their feet. There lay the shield with its cross, 
above it the crown, underneath the words Qui 
patitnr vincit. Deep purple and crimson shad- 
ows flickered and danced over them for a few 
moments, then all disappeared with the sunshine. 
But Humphrey never forgot the lesson they il- 
lustrated. 




Sid. Larcom and Billy Haynes were great 
chums. They studied, skated, coasted and 
took long walks together, never seeming to tire 
of each other’s society. And during these 
walks, over hill and dale and through the woods, 
they talked on many subjects. 

For all their love of fun and mischief they 
were thoughtful boys, and lately they had had 
plenty to think and talk about. 

The young clergyman who had come to the 
village a few months before was quite unlike 
anyone the boys had known. In spite of some 
opposition he had won the hearts, and what was 
more, had managed to keep the attention of the 
circle of lads he soon gathered about him. He 
played a game of football or snowball with as 

3 


4 


Banks — and Banks. 


much zest as any one of them, taught the boys 
to run and leap and jump on true athletie prin- 
ciples, fitted up a room in the rectory where 
they might practise gymnastics, and gave them a 
short scientific lecture once a week on subjects 
chosen by the boys themselves These lectures 
were accompanied by simple but, to the unin- 
itiated, wonderful experiments which deeply in- 
terested the boys, and it would have been a real 
trial for any one of them to stay away from these 
Friday evening “talks,’’ as the rector called them. 

Mr. Newcombe was manly, practical, and 
very direct in all his dealings — “ right square 
out,” the boys said, and they soon learned to re- 
spect as well as like him. 

He went to some trouble to provide these 
entertainments for them, and he asked for and 
expected order and attention, which, after one or 
two lectures, he got. He talked to them in a 
reasonable “ man-to-man ” fashion that won the 
boys’ hearts, and brought out the best there was 
in them. 

One Friday evening after the lecture Mr. 
Newcombe said, “ Boys, I want you all to meet 


Banks — and Banks . 


5 


me in this room next Tuesday evening. I’ve 
been giving you talks on subjects that you like 
best, now come Tuesdays and let me talk to you 
about the thing that / like best.” 

“Any preachin’?” piped up Joe Walters, 
though Sid. Larcom gave him a sharp nudge 
with his elbow and whispered, “ Hush up!” 

“ Come and see,” answered the rector, smiling. 
“ And if you don’t want to, you needn’t come a 
second time.” 

The boys discussed the matter on their way 
home. “ I ’spose he’ll preach and pray the 
whole evening,” said John Symonds, dolefully. 
“ I’ve a great mind to stay away.” 

“ And I,” “ And I,” came from several of the 
group. 

“ Now, look here, boys,” Sid. Larcom put his 
hands on his hips and spoke out decidedly. 
“ If we don’t everyone of us go those Tuesday 
evenings we’ll be a mean, sneakin’ set. Mr. 
Newcombe’s spent his money to fit up that 
gymnasium and to get the things for the experi- 
ments, and he makes us that welcome we’d 
hardly know we wasn’t in our own homes. 


6 


Banks — and Banks. 


We’ve taken all he’s given us, and now, the first 
thing he’s asked us to do, you’re grumbling at. 
I say, let’s all go, and reg’lar, too, it’s the least 
we can do.” 

“ I’ll go, sure,” cried Billy Haynes, ranging 
himself beside Sid. 

“ I guess I will, too,” said Ned Fraser, and 
Tom Collins echoed him. 

Sid. and Billy were leaders in their set, and 
their outspoken decision influenced the others. 
When Mr. Newcombe entered the cheerful little 
lecture room the following Tuesday evening 
every member of the Friday Club was present, 
and even the boys who had chosen seats near 
the door with a view to slipping out unseen, 
could not but be pleased by his bright smile and 
hearty “ Good evening, lads, I’m glad to see you 
all here.” 

When Mr. Newcombe said, “ Let us pray,” 
John Symonds groaned softly as he dropped on 
one knee, and two or three of the younger boys 
snickered. 

The rector heard both, but took no notice. 
“ Boys,” he said, when they had risen from their 


Banks — and Banks. 


7 


knees, “ I’m going to tell you the life of 
our Saviour Jesus Christ, beginning with His 
birth. We’ll take one or two points each Tues- 
day evening, and see how what He said and did 
more than eighteen hundred years ago applies 
to and affects our lives in these days. We’ll 
have some magic-lantern views as we go along, 
and anyone that wants to may ask questions.” 
Then the room was darkened and the talk be- 
gan. 

It was very short, but before it was half over 
those boys on the back seats near the door 
wished themselves front, and though the meet- 
ing closed with another short prayer there was 
no more talk on anyone’s part of staying away 
on Tuesday evenings. 

Gradually it came to these boys that the 
Saviour had actually lived — been a flesh and 
blood boy like themselves, that He had run and 
jumped and played and been tempted like as 
they were. They began to think and to ask 
questions and to realize in the light of their new 
knowledge the power and benefit of His blessed 
example, and this brought forth fruit. 


8 


Banks — and Banks. 


There were no more groans or snickers dur- 
ing the prayers, and after a while some of the 
boys began to appear in church on Sunday 
mornings, following the services and sermon 
with an attention that delighted their rector 
though it did not surprise him. He had ex- 
pected their best and the result did not disap- 
point him. You know, boys and girls, if you 
look for the best in people, you will certainly 
find it. 

On the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday Sid. 
Larcom was obliged to be absent from the 
“ talk.” 

“ I hate to miss it,” he said to Billy ; “ but 
father and mother’ve gone to New Fane and 
they won’t be home till to-morrow morning, and 
granny hates to be left alone nights, so I’ll have 
to stay home and mind her and the place. 
Take in all Mr. Newcombe says, Billy, and tell 
me to-morrow at recess. And tell him why I 
couldn’t come. I guess he’ll understand.” 

Once upon a time, not so long ago either, Sid. 
would have grumbled in pretty strong language 
at having to give up an engagement for his old 


Banks — and Banks. 


9 


grandmother’s sake, and Billy would have up- 
held him in it, but now Billy said, “ All right, 
Sid., he’ll understand, and I’ll take in all I can. 
Good-night.” And Sid. walked homeward, 
whistling softly. 

The next day at recess the two “ cronies,” as 
Ned Frazer called them, retired to a quiet spot 
near the schoolhouse. “ Well ! ” said Sid., ex- 
pectantly. 

“ Well,” replied Billy, with a sly grin. “ It 
was a splendid talk. He says we are banks.” 

“Banks?” cried Sid. in amazement. “ Places 
where you put in and take out money — like the 
one in the village ? ” 

Billy nodded, and Sid. whistled a long low 
note of astonishment, then Billy explained : 

“ This is the way he came to say it. He was 
telling us the story of the ten lepers the 
Saviour made well — that was an awful disease, 
you should have heard about it. Only one out 
of the whole lot came back to thank Him, and 
then our Lord asked where the other nine were. 
I do think it was sneakin’ mean of those fellers, 
but Mr. Newcombe says that nowadays lots of 


io Banks — and Banks. 

people treat the Lord the same way — ask for 
things and get ’em, and then forget to thank 
Him for ’em. Then he said besides that God 
gives us the very best He has to give, and that 
He has a right to expect the same from us; 
and that we are God’s banks. He puts all sorts 
of good things into us, like people do money in 
a bank, and then He draws checks on us for 
those very things. You know about banking, 
don’t you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Sid., “you’ve got to have some- 
thing in the bank before you can draw a check.” 

“ He explained all that,” continued Billy, “and 
told us some of the things God has put into us 
as His banks. Conscience is one, and good- 
nature, honesty, truthfulness, honor — oh, and 
good health. Doesn’t that seem funny? Mr. 
Newcombe says these are all pure gold. And 
that God draws checks on us and expects to be 
paid in gold — you know, he means the very best 
we can give. There’s lots more I’ve forgotten ; 
I just wish you’d been there to hear it yourself. 
Ain’t it a funny idea ? ” 

“ It does seem kinder queer,” answered Sid. 


Banks — and Banks . 


1 1 

slowly, “ but I guess he ain’t far wrong. How 
do the checks come ? ” 

“ Oh ! I forgot that. Sometimes by some one 
asking us to do something that tries our patience 
or our good-nature, or maybe a temptation will 
come to do something or say something we 
hadn’t ought to, or to take something that ain’t 
ours, or to tell a lie. Them checks are drawn 
on our conscience, and honesty and truthfulness, 
and Mr. Newcombe says we must remember it’s 
gold we have to pay out, and just honor the 
check by overcoming the evil with good. He 
says sometimes the check is delivered by a 
cranky person, sometimes by a pleasant one, but 
a check’s a check and we’re bound to honor it 
all the same, no matter when or how it comes 


Whack ! came a big snowball in Billy’s neck. 

“ Check number one ! ” cried Sid., holding on 
to his sides with laughter. 

“ Honored ! ” smilingly answered Billy, put- 
ting up one hand to brush off the snow. 

“ That wasn’t a very hard one, though,” said 
Sid., when they stopped laughing. 


12 


Banks — and Banks. 


“ No,” admitted Billy, “ though it hurt some, 
I tell you. Well, I didn’t finish. Mr. New- 
combe told us about the Lord fasting in the 
wilderness forty days and forty nights, and the 
way He was tempted — tell you what, Sid., that 
was a mighty big check, and no mistake; but 
He honored it — and then the parson asked us 
boys to try and honor all the checks that would 
come to our banks during Lent — you know to- 
day’s Ash Wednesday ? ” Sid. nodded. “ Some 
of the boys said they would and I’m going to 
try, too. Will you ? ” 

“ Shouldn’t wonder if I did,” replied Sid. 
“ It don’t seem very hard, and I know it’ll please 
him,” with a motion of his thumb over his 
shoulder in the direction of the rectory. 

“ Tom Collins told him that and he didn’t like 
it,” said Billy. “ He said we ought to do it for 
Jesus, not for him.” 

There was a short silence, which Sid. broke 
by “ Well, we’ll see. There’s the school bell — 
come on ! ” 

The following Friday evening Mr. Newcombe 
announced that he would give a prize for the 


Banks — and Banks. 


x 3 


best written account of the next six scientific 
lectures. The papers were all to be given in 
on the Friday night before Easter, and the prize 
would be awarded the Friday followings— in 
Easter week. 

The boys were very much pleased with this 
offer, and nearly all entered their names to com- 
pete for the prize. Among them were Sid. 
Larcom and Billy Haynes, and every Friday 
night they came provided with paper and 
pencils, and took notes. 

“ Don’t let’s show each other what we take 
down,” said Sid. “ Let each feller be on his 
own hook.” 

“ All right,” replied Billy, “ I’m willing.” 

They were both doing some “ banking ” these 
days ; sometimes they exchanged confidences on 
the subject, and sometimes they didn’t. 

The first week Sid. told Billy, “ Why, ’taint 
hard, and it makes a feller feel good ; ” to which 
Billy agreed. But there were days after this 
when they both agreed that the checks came so 
fast and for such large amounts that it was very 
hard to meet them. “ I declare, if I hadn’t ’a’ 


14 


Banks — and Banks. 


promised I’d just give up trying/’ said Sid. one 
day. “ Father scolded to-day and granny got 
cross, and I was late to school and missed my 
lessons, and that John Symonds beat me in the 
skating race — and I got that ugly — !” 

“ I know,” said Billy, with sympathy — “ I’ve 
been there myself ; but don’t you give up, Sid. 
Take courage and sleep on it before you make 
up your mind to stop trying. That’s what Mr. 
Newcombe says, and I know it’s good advice.” 

So Sid. slept on his resolution and kept on 
“banking.” 

But the week before Easter a big check was 
unexpectedly presented at his bank — this is the 
way it happened. When Sid. came to arrange 
his scientific notes into the form of an essay the 
facts were so few, and seemed to be so poorly 
expressed, that he got very much discouraged. 
Work as he would he could not improve them 
— and he did so want to win the prize. Mr. 
Newcombe had said the winner might choose 
just what he wanted, and Sid. had made up his 
mind he would take a microscope like the one 
through which “the parson” showed them such 


Banks — and Banks. 


i5 


wonderful things. He had a conviction that 
Billy knew more than he did about the lectures, 
but as he had been the one to say each should 
work out his essay alone, his pride forbade him 
asking any favors from that quarter. 

When school was dismissed on the Wednes- 
day before the Friday on which the essays were 
to be given in, Sid.’s cap was not to be found. 
As he lived a long way from the schoolhouse, 
and the day was bitter cold, and he had his 
essay to finish, the loss was a matter of import- 
ance to Sid. The amount of good-nature and 
patience to his credit in his bank almost gave 
out. 

“ Never mind, Sid,” said Billy, coming to the 
rescue. “ Wear my tam-o’-shanter home. I 
live near, you know; I can tie a handkerchief 
over my head to get there, and to-morrow I can 
wear my Sunday hat till you come. Take it, I 
tell you — I mean it.” So Sid. accepted the offer 
and started homeward. 

But though Billy was a little shorter than 
Sid. his head was larger, and the cap slipped 
about on its new wearer’s head. After steadying 


1 6 Banks — and Banks. 

it several times Sid. took off the cap and turned 
out the lining to see if he could stuff it to fit his 
head. In the crown lay a flat paper, which Sid. 
lifted out intending to fold it inside the lining. 
A few written words caught his eye ; then he 
opened the paper and eagerly read it through. 

It was Billy’s essay — so complete, so well ex- 
pressed that Sid. knew at once his own poor 
description had no chance beside it. Then it 
was that temptation came to Sid. The check 
presented was on his honesty and honor, and 
oh! the pity of it, children, he refused to honor 
it. 

Before the boy reached home he had made up 
his mind to rewrite his essay, working into it the 
best points of Billy’s article. He rushed upstairs 
and began operations. The more he went over 
Billy’s work the less he liked his own, and finally 
he copied the whole essay, merely adding a few 
lines from his own, and signed his name. 

Sid. knew he was doing a mean thing ; he got 
so nervous over it that his mother’s step outside 
the door made him jump violently, and he 
scarcely slept that night. 


Banks — and Banks. 


17 


The next morning he returned the cap to its 
owner, having destroyed the paper which he had 
found in it. For the next few days he was so 
unlike his usual cheerful self, so cross and short, 
and he avoided Billy so steadily that the latter 
noticed it. 

Nearly all the Tuesday night boys met Mr. 
Newcombe in the church on Holy Thursday 
afternoon, but Sid. Larcom was absent. He 
refused so sharply to come with them that even 
faithful Billy got ruffled and left him to himself. 

On Friday evening the essays were given in. 
Billy Haynes came in late and was the last to 
hand in his envelope. Then all trooped out. 

Sid. slipped away to walk home alone. He 
was very unhappy. Now that the essay was out 
of his reach he would have given a good deal to 
recall it. Billy’s devoted love and staunch cham- 
pionship came to his remembrance, and with it 
all a recollection of his Lenten promise. He had 
dishonored the biggest check that had ever been 
presented at his bank! He called himself “a 
mean hound ! ” and a wave of intense humiliation 
and sorrow swept over his heart. Turning, he 


1 8 Banks — and Banks. 

walked rapidly back to the rectory and was 
admitted. The moment he entered the study 
Mr. Newcombe saw something was wrong. 

“ Why, Sid., my boy,” he said, kindly, turning 
from the table on which lay the essays, “ what’s 
the matter ? ” 

“ This bank’s busted ! ” cried poor Sid., hoarse- 
ly, and it’s no disgrace to him that two big tears 
ran down his cheeks. 

In a few moments the whole story was out, 
and the boy stood in shamefaced silence. 

“ Oh, Sid., I’m so sorry,” said Mr. Newcombe, 
sadly, and that touched Sid. more than the most 
severe scolding could have done. “You must 
go right to Billy and confess your fault,” contin- 
ued the rector. “ And, of course, I shall have to 
count you out of the applicants for the prize.” 

“ Oh, I know that, sir, ” began Sid. A 

knock on the door interrupted him. 

“Is Sid. Larcom in there, Mr. Newcombe?” 
asked Billy’s voice. “ If he is I just want to 
wait for him.” 

“ Let him in,” cried Sid., eagerly. “ I might 
as well have it out with him now.” So Billy 






“ Why, old fellow, I don’t mind one bit." 


(Page 19.) 




Banks — and Banks. 


J 9 


came in, his honest little face full of perplexity 
at the sight of Sid.’s troubled one. 

“ Oh, that’s where it went to,” he said when 
Sid. had told his story. “ Why, old fellow, I 
don’t mind one bit, only I’m sorry you dishon- 
ored your check, and if parson’ll let you, you’re 
welcome to use the essay. When I couldn’t find 
it high nor low I just wrote another, — I had the 
notes, you know — that’s what made me late this 
evening, — but it’s all different from the other, so 
you can use it just as well as not. Mayn’t he, 
sir?” turning to Mr. Newcombe. 

“ I tell you, Billy, you’re a bank worth talking 
about,” Sid. broke out in admiration, giving his 
chum a hearty slap on the shoulder. 

“ No,” answered the rector, “ I couldn’t allow 
that, Billy, and I am sure Sid. wouldn’t want it. 
Another thing, he has confessed his fault to 
you and been forgiven, but there is One whose 
pardon he has not yet asked. Sid., you have 
grieved One who loves you better than Billy 
does, and you must win His forgiveness, too, 
before peace can come to your heart. You know 
Whom I mean ? ” 


20 


Banks — and Banks. 


“Yes, sir,” said Sid, in a low voice, getting 
very red in the face and shuffling one foot over 
the other. “ I mean to do it. And — and — will 
you and Billy pray for me, too ? ” 

“ Oh, Sid.! ” cried Billy, choking up. “ As if 
I was any better’n you.” 

“ We will pray together,” said Mr. Newcombe, 
gently. And so they did, right there in the 
rector’s study, and the two boys went out to their 
homes comforted and strengthened to do better 
service for God. 




It was Saturday morning, and Adrian and 
Robin had been enjoying themselves even more 
than they usually did on their much-prized holi- 
day. They had made their weekly tour around 
the place ; had visited patient old Bloss and her 
long-legged calf, and given the ponies, Jack and 
Jill, their Saturday treat of apples and turnips ; 
they had fed the pigeons and counted and divided 
the new rabbits ; they had had great fun helping 
Jake chase some young pigs from the orchard 
into their pens, and now, as they rested on the 
steps of the front piazza, the two boys fell into a 
discussion. 

There was a difference of a little more than a 
year between the children, but they were such 
inseparable companions that big brother Jack 

3 


4 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


had nicknamed them “the twinsies.” They 
slept, walked, rode, played and went to school 
together, and papa was right when he said he 
thought that neither really enjoyed a pleasure 
which was not shared by the other. 

In all their plans and games Robin, though 
the younger, was the leader. He was only a 
trifle shorter than Adrian, and had brighter eyes 
and hair and a more confident manner. 

Adrian was not so active as his younger 
brother ; he cared very little for tennis ; to climb 
to the top of a tree or to swing very high made 
him dizzy, and he was not the fearless swimmer 
or rider that Robin was. This troubled his papa 
sometimes ; he and the two older boys, Jack 
and Norman, were so fond of athletic sports. 

“ I hope that boy isn’t going to be a molly- 
coddle,” he said several times. But mamma 
always smiled, reassuringly. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” she would say. 
“Adrian’s nerves are not quite so strong as those 
of the other boys, but rest assured, he is no 
coward.” 

Meanwhile the discussion on the front piazza 



Robin, though the younger, was the leader. 


(Page 4.) 


































* 



























































































































































' 1 

. 

• ffl 

H 






Two Kinds of Saints. 


5 


was growing animated. It had been started by 
Jake’s saying : “ If them pigs ain’t enough to 

try a saint ! ” as he darted hither and thither 
after the sleek, slippery little grunters. 

“ I say, there never was but one kind of saints, 
and they’re all dead. They were awfully good 
people, who had to go through a lot of hard- 
ships because they were Christians. They got 
burned and killed and everything,” cried Robin, 
positively, standing with his feet planted firmly 
on the gravel path and his hands in the pockets 
of his short sailor suit. “ I know they’re all 
dead. I think grandpa said so.” 

“ No, he didn’t, Robin,” contradicted Adrian. 
“And the saints are not all dead — at least, one 
kind is, but one kind is living, too.” Then, as 
Robin laughed at this remark, he added, “ I know 
what I mean but I can’t explain it. I do wish 
mamma had not gone to town with Jack. Shall 
we ask Nor ? He is in the library.” 

“Well, we might try him, but I don’t think 
he’ll know,” said Robin. They raced through 
the hall and burst into the library where Norman 
sat working out a mathematical problem. His 


6 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


hair was ruffled up, his brows were knitted. 
Norman was a better athlete than mathematician. 

“ Well, kids, what brings you here? ” he asked, 
eying the little boys severely. 

“ We want to find out about saints,” began 
Robin. 

“ Oh, you do ! ” said Norn^n, with mock po- 
liteness. “ Well, I’m sorry I can’t give you the 
desired information, my acquaintance with them 
being exceedingly limited. Now suppose you 
retire.” 

“ I think that was real mean of Norman,” said 
Robin, when they were out on the piazza again. 

“ So it was,” assented Adrian. “ But never 
mind him. I know what we’ll do — let’s go to 
the blacksmith’s shop. Andy’ll be able to tell 
us.” 

“ That’s so. Come on, we’ll race down.” 

And so they did, with many a shout and much 
laughter, bursting into Andrew’s shop like a 
small whirlwind. Robin’s cap had disappeared ; 
Adrian’s tam-o’-shanter was over on one ear 
and he carried one of his low shoes dangling by 
its strings. 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


7 


“ Hulloa, Andy,” cried the boys in one laugh- 
ing breath. “ Here’s a horse to be shod. This 
horse has cast a shoe.” 

“All right, gentlemen,” said kind, stalwart 
Andy, entering into the spirit of the joke. 
“ Here’s a new kind of shoe just ready, and a 
hammer handy. You can put it on yourself in 
about two minutes.” 

“ Let me be blacksmith ? ” begged Robin. 
“ I’m sure I know how to put the shoe on. I’ve 
watched Andy often enough. Come, pony, get 
into position.” 

So Adrian slipped on his shoe and going 
down on all fours let Robin take one of his legs 
between his knees in the way they had often 
seen Andrew do when shoeing a horse. 

Armed with a hammer and some small tacks 
Robin set to work to fasten a narrow strip of 
iron to the sole of Adrian’s shoe, while Andrew 
stopped working for a few minutes to smile down 
upon the two children. 

The new pony soon became very restive ; he 
whinnied, he hee-hawed like a donkey, and 
kicked up his heels at the most inopportune 


8 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


times. “ Whoa there ! ” cried Robin for about 
the tenth time. “ I declare you are enough to 
try a saint ! ” 

“Why, that’s what we came about,” cried 
Adrian, suddenly. “And if we hadn’t forgotten 
all about it ! Andy, aren’t there two kinds of 
saints ? I know that those who lived long ago 
were the ones who were tortured and put to 
death cruelly because they were Christians, but 
isn’t there another kind besides ? And don’t 
they live now-a-days, too ? ” 

“ I say there was only one kind, and they’re 
all dead,” eagerly broke in Robin, letting 
Adrian’s foot fall, though the new shoe was 
not all fastened on. “ Weren’t St. Matthew and 
St. Luke and St. James saints? Well,” as Andy 
nodded, “ I’m sure they are all dead. I learned 
about them the other day. St. Matthew was 
killed with the sword at Ethiopia in Egypt ; St. 
Luke was hanged on an olive tree in Greece ; 
St. James the Great was beheaded at Jerusalem ; 
the other St. James — the Less, I mean — was 
thrown headlong from a pinnacle of the temple ; 
St. Paul was beheaded at Rome by Nero; St. 




“ You know I’m not as brave as you are . 99 

(Page 9.) 







Two Kinds of Saints. 


9 


Andrew was crucified on a cross the shape of an 
X — and oh, there are ever so many more. 
How they did suffer ! That’s what I call being 
a saint. And weren’t they brave, Andy? I’d 
like to have lived then.” The little boy’s fair 
face was flushed, his blue eyes sparkled with 
enthusiasm. 

“ Oh, would you ? ” cried Adrian. “ Could 
you have had the courage to endure being tor- 
tured, or burned, or beheaded, or thrown to wild 
beasts? I am afraid I could not; you know I’m 
not as brave as you are.” 

“ I could,” said Robin, confidently. “ I know 
I could. I’m not afraid of anything — see here.” 
As he spoke he laid the first finger of his left 
hand on a piece of red-hot iron which Andy had 
just put on the anvil. 

“ Oh, don’t ! don’t ! ” exclaimed Adrian, pull- 
ing his brother back, while Andrew dashed the 
little hand away, crying, “ You foolish boy ! ” 

“ Pooh, it doesn’t hurt — much,” said Robin, 
putting the burnt hand into his pocket and try- 
ing to ignore the keen smarting which had just 
begun. 


IO 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


“ You are brave, Robin,” Adrian said in awe- 
struck tones. “ I couldrit have done that.” 

“ Now, see here, boys,” said Andrew, very 
seriously. “ This isn’t at all the spirit that filled 
the saints and martyrs. They didn’t pride them- 
selves on their bravery, they were too humble- 
minded for that. Who could have endured in- 
tense suffering and a terrible death in a braver 
manner than our dear Lord Himself, and was 
there ever a boast heard from His lips ? Some 
of the saints and martyrs were as weak physi- 
cally as they could be; faint and wasted from 
starvation ; bruised and broken by torture ; 
many of them delicate and timid, and the cour- 
age with which they met death only came to 
them through their great faith in Christ. He it 
was who gave so many of them strength to die 
with serene composure — even with words of for- 
giveness for their enemies. The mere fact of 
their meeting death bravely would not make 
them saints ; a savage could do that, you know. 
Their saintliness lies in the great love they bore 
their Master, and that they endured all they did 
for His sake. All those who strive to follow 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


ii 


the Master’s example, and who live holy lives, 
denying themselves for Christ’s sake, are saints.” 

“Then isn’t it anything to be brave?” asked 
Robin, with a sickening consciousness that the 
pain in his finger was increasing. 

“ Y es,” said Andrew, “ if a boy’s bravery 
makes him patient, humble, gentle, truthful and 
better able to stand up for his Saviour, then it’s 
a grand thing for him to have, but if it only 
makes him proud and vain, and fond of showing 
off, then he’d better be a coward and know it.” 

Robin’s cheeks were very red.; he stood with 
downcast eyes kicking the base of the anvil 
without a word. 

“ Well, I think it’s splendid to be brave like 
Robin,” cried Adrian, warmly, throwing his arm 
around his brother’s shoulders. 

“ Bravery alone ’ll never make anyone a saint,” 
was Andrew’s reply. “Why, boys, I know a 
man who is so timid that if you should jump 
out suddenly on him in fun he’d take to his 
heels and run, and yet he is a saint and a brave 
one, too.” 

“ A saint ! A living saint!” cried Robin. 


12 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


“Yes, a saint. His life is so holy, his patient 
endurance of all his trials (and he’s got heaps of 
them) so beautiful, and his love and trust in his 
Saviour so real, that he is an example and help 
to all who know him, and he is so humble that 
he does not dream what an influence he has over 
others. He is a real saint, he is, and we can all 
be saints, too, if we try hard enough and ask for 
help from above.” 

“That’s what grandpa said one day,” ex- 
claimed Adrian. “I remember now, he said 
grandma was a saint because she was so patient 
and gentle — so Christ-like he called it — though 
she had to lie on a lounge all the time and 
couldn’t walk a step like other people. That’s 
what made me think there were living saints as 
well as dead ones.” 

“ Think of that to-morrow, dear lads,” said 
Andy. “You know to-morrow will be All 
Saints’ Day, and give thanks to God for the ex- 
ample of all His saints, the living, as well as 
those in Paradise.” 

The boys took a “ short-cut ” home, and as 
they climbed the narrow path which wound 


Two Kinds of Saints. 




along the steep hill-side, back of the blacksmith’s 
shop, Robin’s foot slipped on the dry, sunburnt 
grass; in his effort to save himself he caught 
hold of his brother and both rolled down the 
steep descent with a rapidity they had not im- 
agined possible. Over sticks and stones they flew 
until they crashed suddenly through some bushes 
into a deep, dark hole at the bottom of the hill. 
They came down with a heavy thud, Adrian 
under, and it was a second or two before either 
of the boys spoke. Then Robin said, as he 
rolled into a sitting position, “Oh, my head! 
I’ve hit my head an awful blow, and I think it’s 
bleeding — something wet’s running down my 
face. Oh ! ” with a little scream, as something 
soft and slippery ran over his hand. “ Oh ! Ad., 
where are we? Oh! this is horrible. How’ll 
we ever get out ? ” 

“ I think we’ve fallen through a hole, into the 
slope of the old mine,” said Adrian, slowly. 
Robin thought his voice sounded queerly. “ I’ve 
heard papa say it was full of dangerous places, 
so be careful how you move about.” 

Poor Robin was very uncomfortable and un- 


14 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


happy. It seemed to him that his head and his 
hand were running a race to try which could 
throb hardest, and Adrian lay there without say- 
ing a word to comfort him. “ I think this is 
horrible,” he repeated, breaking into an uncon- 
trollable sob. “ A lot of nasty things are walk- 
ing all over me, and I don’t know what to do to 
get out of this hole.” 

“Don’t cry, Rob,” said Adrian, gently. “I’ll 
try — let’s go in this direction.” On their hands 
and knees, Adrian going first, very slowly they 
felt their way about in the darkness, calling 
“ Help ! help ! ” as loudly as they could. 

The time had appeared very long to them ; 
but in reality only a little while had elapsed 
since they fell off the hill path before they heard 
Andrew’s welcome voice shouting directly over- 
head, “ Hold on, boys, stay just where you are. 
I am coming to you.” 

In a very few moments he appeared, crouch- 
ing under the low roof, with a small lantern at- 
tached to his cap. “ Which shall I take first ? ” 
he asked, peering into the darkness. 

“ Take Robin,” answered Adrian. “ I’m afraid 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


i5 


he has cut his head badly.” And without any 
demur Robin allowed himself to be lifted in 
Andrew’s strong arms and be carried up into the 
blessed sunshine and air again. 

Hastily placing Robin on his feet, Andrew 
again descended, to reappear in a few minutes 
with Adrian, who lay white and still in his arms. 
“ He’s hurt his foot — sprained it, I guess,” he 
explained to the frightened little brother. “Now 
for home as fast as we can go.” And as they 
walked rapidly along in silence Robin made two 
discoveries which filled him with surprise. One 
was, that his head was not cut at all and that it 
was water, not blood, running down the side of 
his face, the other, that Adrian, not he, had acted 
the braver part. Nor were his feelings soothed 
when Andrew asked, slyly, “ Shall I tell the 
doctor to bring a needle to sew up your wound, 
Robin ? ” 

As mamma bent over Adrian he opened his 
eyes to say, “ Look after Robin first, he’s hurt 
his head,” then fainted away as his sprained 
ankle was touched. 

That night, after Adrian had been carefully 


1 6 Two Kinds of Saints. 

put to bed in mamma’s dressing-room, so as to 
be nearer to her, Robin gave his mother a long 
and full account of the day’s proceedings. 

“ I always thought I was so much braver than 
Adrian,” he said, sadly, at last. “ I’ve teased 
him many a time about it — in fun, you know, 
* and yet, there was he, hurt badly and never 
saying a word about it, only trying to comfort 
me, and there was I, crying like a big baby ! I 
am ashamed. Am I really a coward, mamma ? 
Andrew as much as said, to-day, that I wasn’t 
really brave. But am I a coward ? ” The blue 
eyes looked anxiously up at her. 

“ No, my boy,” said mamma, gently, “ but I 
am afraid you were getting boastful and conceit- 
ed about your courage and you needed taking 
down. God does not love to see such a spirit 
in His children. You remember that ‘Pride 
goeth before a fall ! ’ As soon as you begin to 
think more highly than you ought to of any 
good or fine quality which you possess, be sure 
you’re in danger. And sometimes, dear, our 
strongest point is just the one we should ask 
God to help us guard the closest. You know 


Two Kinds of Saints. 


17 


Moses was the meekest man, yet Moses sinned 
through anger — when he smote the rock at 
Kadesh instead of speaking to it as God had 
commanded. Job was the most patient man, 
yet Job sinned through impatience. St. Peter 
was very brave, yet he sinned by cowardly deny- 
ing his Lord. So you see, little son, it is very 
necessary to guard the strong places as well as 
the weak ones.” 

“ Oh, mamma, do you think I could ever be 
good enough to be a saint ? ” whispered Robin, 
as mamma gave him his good-night kiss. 

“Yes, my darling, I do,” was the earnest 
answer. “To be a saint is not to be perfect, 
but it is to be * given to God.’ It is to love 
Him very dearly and to strive to be like Him in 
everything that we say or do. This can only be 
done through” mamma paused — 

“ Through the help of Jesus Christ our Lord,” 
reverently finished Robin. “ I’m so glad we’ve 
had this talk, mamma. Please give my dear 
love to Adrian again, and tell him I shall miss 
him dreadfully to-night.” 













They had always had a hard life, poor little 
waifs ! and within the past few weeks things had 
gone “ wuss’n ever,” as Buddie would have ex- 
pressed it. A drunken orgie had resulted in 
the arrest of the wicked pair the children called 
parents, and for two weeks Buddie and Madge, 
two miserable dirty mites of humanity, had ex- 
isted as best they might on stray bits and ends, 
and had slept in old wagons and in cellars, their 
cause of rejoicing being the absence of kicks and 
cuffs, of which all their life long they had had a 
liberal supply. But one bitter cold day, when 
the streets were covered with ice and snow, 
Buddie had slipped and fallen across the railroad 
track, the car wheels going over both thin little 

3 


4 


These Little Ones. 


legs, and had been carried off, pale and insen- 
sible, to the nearest hospital, leaving Madge cry- 
ing bitterly alone in the street. 

A poor little street Arab, as lonely as ever a 
human being could be, with an awful vague 
terror tugging at her heart, a terror that over- 
flowed in great splashing tears which made lines 
down a very dirty face, and were rubbed away 
by a pair of very dirty hands. 

But time was too valuable to be wasted in 
that way, and with a fist in one eye and the 
other eye on the fast retreating ambulance, 
Madge dashed along, digging her bare toes into 
the slippery ground to avoid falling, keeping up 
a steady gait which gradually told in her favor, 
for she reached the corner in time to see the 
wagon drive under the archway of the hospital. 
Seating herself on the top stair of the entrance 
she waited patiently for some one to come out. 
At last one of the doctors came along with a 
rapid step. 

“Please, sir!” cried Madge, springing to her 
feet and catching at his coat, “won’t yer tell me 
how Buddie is ? ” 


These Little Ones. 


5 


“Who is Buddie? What do you want?” 
cried the doctor, impatiently. 

“ He’s me brother,” explained the little shrill 
voice ; “ he’s been run over an’ they’ve jest 
bringed him here. Won’t yer tell me how he 
is ? He looked jest like a dead person when 
they kerried him in — can’t yer tell me nothin’ 
’bout him, sir ? ” with a quiver in her voice that 
threatened to end in a sob. 

“ No, I know nothing about the matter,” said 
the doctor, quickly. “ Come around to-morrow 
morning and some one will tell you how he is. 
You can’t see him now,” and he walked rapidly 
away. He could easily have found out for her 
and thus saved her all those hours of waiting, 
but he had an engagement for dinner (he was a 
rising young m^n, well spoken of in the profes- 
sion), and why should he risk being late for a 
dirty little beggar ! So he went his way with- 
out another thought for the wretched little ob- 
ject crouching down in one corner of the wide 
step, sobbing and shivering with hunger and 
cold. 

“ Poor Buddie ! ” she sobbed, the dirty fingers 


6 


These Little Ones. 


acting industriously as a pocket handkerchief. 
“ Seems like he’s alius havin’ somethin’ happen 
to him, for all he’s so good an’ quiet-like. I’se 
the wicked one, and yet I never is hurt. He 
did look orfull when they took him up, but the 
p’leeceman he said it wor only a faintin’ spell. 
S’pose he’ll be well in a couple weeks, anyhow,” 
trying to put away the great dread which would 
come uppermost. “ People don’t die from sich 
a thing, leastways he won’t, for Buddie is 
stronger ’n he looks — he is.” 

But it was several days before Madge was 
allowed to see Buddie, and then she scarcely 
recognized him. In a small white bed lay the 
little fellow, his face clean and very pale, his 
hair brushed smoothly off his forehead. 

“ Hey ! Madge,” he said, smiling faintly and 
holding out his hand. “ How’ve yer bin ? 
Thought as how yer’d forgot me.” 

“ Forgot yer, Buddie ! ” cried Madge, great 
tears welling up into her eyes. “ ’Taint likely, I 
can tell yer. Every night the last thing I thinks 
of is yer. I dreams of yer, and the fust thing in 
the mornin’ I thinks of yer again. I’se cried for 



“Hey! Madge," 
" How've yer bin? 


he said, smiling faintly and holding out his hand. 
Thought as how yer'd forgot me." (Page 6 ) 










































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































These Little Ones. 


7 


yer every night, Buddie, an’ I would o’ come to 
see yer before ef they’d a let me. ’ 

“ Guess I’se been purty sick,” said Buddie, 
with a kind of pride in the statement. “ I don’t 
’member ’bout much ; been kinder wild, yer 
know. How d’ye get along, Madge? Where 
yer been eatin’ an’ sleepin ? ” 

“ Oh ! nowhar in pertickiler,” replied Madge, 
carelessly, waiving the question. “ I don’t take 
no pleasure in nothin’ sence yer been sick, Bud- 
die. I’se so lonely; I misses yer, I do. An’ I’ve 
bringed yer somethin’ I thought yer might like.” 

Carefully undoing several dingy-looking pieces 
of paper, she produced with great pride a small 
red orange, and laid it on the bed. 

“My!” cried Buddie, who fully appreciated 
the delicate attention. “Ain’t it a nice one? 
Why, Madge, yer’s wery kind to spend yer 
money on me. Say, yer’ll have a piece, won’t 
yer?” 

“ No, thank yer,” said Madge, firmly, her tone 
belying the wistful look in her eyes. “ I don’t 
want none an’ I ain’t agoin’ to take it. I’se 
bought it for yer, an’ I wants yer to eat it all. 


8 


These Little Ones. 


Lors! a orange like that ain’t nothin’ to me. 
Go on an’ eat it yerself.” 

Not a word about the empty stomach that 
was craving to be filled, or the strong self-denial 
that had been required to get even that small 
orange, but I think Buddie guessed it all for he 
repeated softly, “ Yer’s very kind, Madge,” and 
began to tear off the skin.” 

“Is it good?” asked Madge, bending forward 
eagerly. 

“ Good ! ” cried Buddie, smacking his lips. 
“Good ain’t the name for it. It’s about the 
bestest orange I ever eat.” 

“ The man said as how it wor good,” said 
Madge, with an air of satisfaction ; “ but oranges 
is very deceivin’ sometimes.” 

“ Say, Madge,” said the boy, presently, “ there’s 
a lady as comes and reads to me sence I bin 
here, and she do say some curis things. ’Mem- 
ber we went to Sunday-school long ’go till 
marm foun’ us out an’ beat us fur goin’ ? ” 

Madge nodded. 

“ ’Member wot the teacher tole us ’bout the 
Lord Jesus a cornin’ down on earth, and how 


These Little Ones. 


9 


they killed him? Don't yer ’member?” disap- 
pointment in his voice. 

“Yes,” said Madge, slowly. “But yer know, 
Buddie, marm sed it wor a lie wot the teacher 
tole us.” 

“ It wor not a lie,” cried Buddie, earnestly. 
“Fur this lady wot comes to see me she tells 
me the same thing, an’ I’d b’lieve her any day 
’gainst marm. I wish yer could hear her, she 
talks so as it goes right to a feller’s heart. 
Mebbe I’ll ask her to wait and read to yer, too, 
to-morrer.” 

Just then the nurse said Madge must go as 
Buddie was still very weak, so she went, after 
consenting to accept, as a great favor, the skin 
of the orange, declaring there was nothing she 
liked better. 

After this Madge was allowed to see Buddie 
every day, and made the acquaintance of the 
lady who read to Buddie, and listened while she 
explained in simple, forcible language the won- 
derful story of our Redemption. Buddie asked 
many questions and was deeply interested, but 
Madge sat silent on the floor, her big,, hungry 


IO 


These Little Ones. 


eyes just coming above the edge of her brother’s 
cot, drinking in every word, but saying nothing 
whatever. 

And all this time Buddie was growing weaker 
instead of stronger, “ wasting away,” the nurse 
called it; and one dark day when Madge came 
they were all about his bed, the nurse and the 
doctor, and the lady who read to him was kneel- 
ing by him. He was very pale, and was breath- 
ing slowly and with great effort, but there was 
no trembling, no shrinking ; calmly, even cheer- 
fully, Buddie met the great Destroyer. 

“Oh! Madge,” he said, with a faint smile; 
“ I’se orfull glad to see yer. I was ’fraid yer 
wouldn’t get here in time.” 

“Fur wot?” asked Madge, the old terror 
stealing over her. 

“ I’se a-going — fast, don’t yer see it ? ” said 
Buddie, calmly. 

“ A-dyin’ ! ” cried Madge, shrilly. “ Oh ! yer’s 
a-foolin’. Ain’t he a-foolin’ ? ” addressing the 
lady. Then throwing out her arms across him, 
“ Oh ! Buddie, I don’t want yer to go, I ain’t 
got nobody but yer.” 


These Little Ones. 


1 1 

“That’s the one thing wot worrits me,” said 
the boy, slowly. “ Ef I could take yer with me 
I’d like it fust rate. Yer know, Madge, I thinks 
a lot o’ yer ; you an’ I has alius hung together 
and it do go agen me to leave yer behind, but 
wot kin I do ? The dear Lord, He says fur me 
to come alone, an’ I has to go. An’ I ain’t on- 
willin’ to go, fur tho’ I ain’t spoke much ’bout 
it, I’se been orfull tired sometimes — an’ I’ve 
axed Him to look arter you, Madge, pcrtickeler .” 

“You’re not afraid to die, Buddie?” asked 
the lady. 

“No!” said Buddie, simply, “’Cause the 
Lord’s a-waitin’ fur me on the other side. He 
promised He would, yer know, an’ I ain’t ’fraid 
He’ll go back on His word — Madge, will yer 
meet me by’mby? I’ll be a-watchin’ fur yer. 
Say, will yer come ? ” 

“ I’ll try,” cried poor Madge, with a violent 
burst of tears. “ But I don’t expect to get ther; 
yer knows, Buddie, I’se alius been wicked.” 

Buddie’s eyes were closing. “ Sing ‘ I was 
weary, too,’ ” he whispered. So the lady sang 
slowly and softly : 


12 


These Little Ones. 


“ ‘ Well I know thy trouble, 

0 my servant true ; 

Thou art very weary, 

1 was weary, too. ’ ” 

When she finished the last line little Buddie 
was no longer weary. 

* * * * * * * 

Up and down the streets Madge wandered. 
It was a bitter cold day; a sharp, biting wind 
penetrated thick overcoats and fur-lined cloaks, 
and pierced through and through the child’s 
thin dress, nipping her bare toes and legs, and 
pinching and turning blue and purple her small, 
wasted face. Miserable, cold, starving, she 
wandered on and on, conscious only of her 
great misery, moaning sometimes in a faint, 
weak way that was very touching. 

The shades of a large, handsome house were 
drawn high up, so that the light shone out. 
Stealing up the massive stoop she peeped into 
one of the windows. Such a glow of light and 
warmth, red curtains, red carpet, bright, cheery 
grate fires, dancing and snapping ; people in the 
parlors, a lady and a little girl about as big as 


These Little Ones. 


13 


Madge. “ Guess I’ll ring the bell and beg for 
somethin’ to eat. Mebbe they won’t refuse me 
here.” So she rang the bell, and after a while 
(an age it appeared to the poor little beggar) a 
footman opened the door. 

“Please give me somethin’ to eat,” pleaded 
Madge. “ I’se orfull hungry. I ain’t had noth- 
in’ for more’n two days. I’ll take anythin’ yer 
got.” 

The man looked pitifully at her and hesitated. 
The lady came to the parlor door; she was 
richly dressed. 

“Is it a beggar, John? What impertinence to 
ring the bell. Shut the door at once ; you are 
letting a great deal of cold air into the house. 
You know I never encourage beggars, I have 
nothing for them.” 

So the door was shut, and she went back to 
her comfortable room and warm fire, but before 
her mind would come the miserable little figure, 
a thin small shawl over its head, two big, wistful 
eyes staring at her, and into her ears the cry, 
“I’se orfull hungry,” until her comfort was 
almost destroyed. 


14 


These Little Ones. 


Wandering again — through a small side street 
this time, filled with flats and tenement houses. 
Not a creature was to be seen on the street. 
And to add to the misery of the night snow 
began to fall, and was blown hither and thither 
in a wild fashion by the merciless wind. 

Crawling up the stoop of one of the houses, 
Madge tried to shelter herself as best she might, 
cowering down in a little heap, her feet 
scrouched up under her short skirts, her two 
hands folded under her cheek. If she had only 
rung this bell how gladly any of the inmates 
would have fed and warmed her, but the poor 
little hands were too numb now, and the terrible 
gnawing hunger was passing away. A quiet, 
sleepy feeling was coming over her, the wind 
ceased to worry her; her mind wandered vague- 
ly from one thing to another until she reached 
the thought of Buddie, and there it rested with a 
great and calm satisfaction. 

“I’se glad he went fust,” she thought. “Now 
he’ll be there to meet me, and make me kinder 
to home. I ain’t tried half hard ’nough, but still 
I hev tried, and mebbe that’ll count fur me 


These Little Ones. 


15 


by’m’by. I don’t swear no more; I’se tried to 
get somethin’ to do, an’ I’se done it honest when 
I had it. I’se been to church time and agen; 
I’se sed Buddie’s hymn nights. ’Taint much, 
but it’s the best I kin do, an’ mebbe He’ll take 
that inter consideration. Buddie sed as how his 
Jesus was orfull poor one time. An’ He wor 
God’s own Son, an’ had everythin’ ef he had 
a-choose to take it. But he lef Heaven an’ 
come down here a-purpose to die, so all on us 
might hey a chance. Buddie he wor sure he 
wor a-goin to Heaven, but I ain’t; but then he 
wor alius kinder good, an’ I ain’t. But mebbe 
the dear Lord Jesus’ll forgive me fur bein’ so 
wicked, and let me come to Heaven to be with 
Him an’ Buddie.” 

A choir boy on the first floor was practising 
for Sunday, and the sweet soprano voice rang 
out through a broken pane in the window, and 
fell on the half-deaf ears of the child. 

“ Well I know thy trouble, 

0 my servant true ; 

Thou art very weary, 

1 was weary, too.” 


i6 


These Little Ones. 


“ Buddie’s hymn,” she murmured — “ ‘ I was 
weary, too.’ ” 

A full sense of the perfect love of the dear 
Lord suddenly dawned on the child’s mind, and 
sent a thrill of joy through the poor frozen 
limbs. The little stiff lips quivered. 

“Dear Jesus,” she whispered. “My dear 
Lord Jesus.” 

The wind still blew sharp and piercing, the 
snow still came down, but it seemed to touch the 
little prostrate form more gently, falling softly on 
her hair and face, nestling in her neck, smooth- 
ing out the miserable garments, covering up the 
little bare feet — falling, falling, falling, fair and 
white. 

When they found her in the morning there 
was a sweet smile on the childish mouth, and 
such an expression of perfect peace and rest on 
the thin face, that they said to one another in 
wonder, “Freezing can’t be such a terrible death 
— -she looks happy.” And well she might, for 
all the want and starvation, and ignorance and 
sin were left behind, and “It hath not entered 
into the heart of man to conceive the things 


These Little Ones. 


17 


which God hath prepared for them that love 


Him.” 


Oh, ye that are able, ye that are rich, remem- 
ber the poor; give generously, give with both 
hands, “ Full measure, pressed down, and running 
over;” for so will God reward you. Even if 
nine out of every ten prove undeserving and 
ungrateful, the tenth may be one of “these 
little ones” whom the Lord has commended to 
our care, and of whom we shall have to render 
an account by and by. 




HE sun shone through a large stained- 
glass window into a quaint old hall in 
an English home, lighting up the dark 
portraits on the walls and throwing 
great patches of yellow and purple 
and red sunshine on the polished floor and wide, 
shallow staircase. Around the sides of the hall, 
above the pictures, ran a white strip like a rib- 
bon, on which was printed in odd-shaped red 
and black letters the lines, “To vs alle Gode 
gravnt grace of our offendynge, Space to ovr 
amendynge, and His face to be seen at ovr end- 
ynge. Amen.” Following the shape of the 
arched window was the motto of the old cru- 
saders, “In hoc signo vinces ,” — “ In this sign thou 
shalt conquer,” with the halo of the cross spread- 
ing out in brilliant rays over the small diamond 


4 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

panes. The colors in the window were very 
rich, and the shadow of the cross fell brilliantly 
on the old-fashioned pictures, the suits of armor 
ranged about the corners, and the figure of a 
little boy who sat half way up the stairs, his el- 
bows resting on his knees, his chin in his palms, 
and the big blue eyes which looked up at the 
glowing window high above his head full of 
eager interest. The boy’s name was Cuthbert 
Chaloner. A step or two below him knelt 
his favorite sister and constant companion, 
Muriel. 

“ Oh ! don’t I wish I had lived in those days,” 
cried Cuthbert, regretfully, waving his hand 
toward the window. “I’d have made those 
Saracens fly ! And I’d never have rested 
till I reached Jerusalem like brave Godfrey of 
Boulogne. Fancy me, Muriel, tearing along at 
the head of my troops, waving my sword and 
shouting my battle cry, ‘ In hoc signo vinces ! ’ 
Hurrah ! I tell you we’d have won the victory 
every time.” 

“And I would have worked your standard for 
you,” said Muriel. “A flag like that,” — pointing 



Fancy me, Muriel, tearing along at the head of my troops.” 


(Page 4.) 























































































































































In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 


5 


to a faded silken shred that hung on the wall — 
“ only fresh and beautiful, with colors as bright 
as those in the window. The cross would have 
have been the most beautiful of all, and our 
motto. You should have had it to remind you 
of me.” 

“ You could never have made a flag like that,” 
was Cuthbert’s ungrateful reply. 

“Yes, I could — if I had lived then,” answered 
Muriel; “girls did nothing those days but sit 
and sew all the time. And when pilgrims came 
with news from the Holy Land I’d have given 
them all sorts of grand gifts — a whole roasted 
ox — or perhaps,” hastily, seeing argument in 
Cuthbert’s eye, “ as much of it as they could eat, 
and if they told of the valiant deeds you had 
done, or the many battles you had won, I’d have 
given them money.” 

“Ah,” sighed her brother, “ those were the 
times. There’s no use in being brave now, 
there’s nothing to do — no hard things, I 
mean.” 

“ Oh, yes, there are,” said Muriel, nodding her 
head, wisely. “ You ought to have heard papa 


6 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer . 

and Colonel Erskine this afternoon. I’m so 
sorry you had that horrid lesson to study just 
then. You know Colonel Erskine was in India 
when they had that trouble about a year ago, 
and oh ! if you could hear the stories he tells 
you wouldn’t think there was nothing for brave 
men to do in these days.” 

“Yes?” questioned Cuthbert, eagerly. 

“ Yes,” went on Muriel. “He told us a story 
about a young fellow in his regiment — it was 
this way : our troops were betrayed by a false 
spy; there were nearly three times as many 
sepoys — fierce, horrible creatures — as there were 
soldiers, and he says things were looking pretty 
desperate when Jock got wounded. He dropped 
when the shot struck him, but when one of the 
soldiers ran to help him he said, ‘No, no, don’t 
stop for me; I’m all right,’ and by and by he 
dragged himself to one side, and cheered and 
encouraged his comrades with such brave words 
that they didn’t dream he was seriously injured 
until after fresh troops had come to their rescue 
and the enemy had been routed. Then they 
found that both Jock’s legs had been shattered.” 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 7 

“ What became of him ? Did he get well ? ” 
asked Cuthbert eagerly, as his sister paused. 

Muriel shook her head. “ He had waited too 
long before help came. But the soldiers buried 
him with honors. They wrapped the only flag 
they had around him and fired a military salute 
over his grave. They declared he was a hero 
and that if he had lived he ought to have had 
the Victoria Cross for his endurance. When 
Colonel Erskine finished the story papa said, 
‘Jock was a true hero, because he put his suffer- 
ings aside that he might help some one/ and the 
colonel just pointed to that cross in the window — 
we were sitting in the hall — and said, in such a 
voice that a big lump came in my throat, ‘ In 
that sign he conquered. Jock was merely fol- 
lowing the example of his Master.’ I wish you 
had heard it, Bert.” 

“ I wish I had,” said Cuthbert. “ I’ll get him 
to tell it to me the next time he comes, so I can 
tell Tom Baker. I know he’ll want to hear it.” 

“You think such a lot of that common boy” 
— there was a suspicion of jealousy in Muriel’s 
tone. 


8 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

“Indeed, he isn’t common, Muriel, for all his 
rough ways Tom’s just splendid — and he can 
train a pup equal to any keeper,” which last 
statement settled the question of Tom’s worth. 

When Colonel Erskine rode over to the 
Priory the next day the children were waiting 
for him down by the lodge gate, and they coaxed 
until they persuaded him to retell them the story 
of Jock; hanging on his words, and asking 
questions with an eager interest that pleased the 
old veteran, and induced him to give them some 
details of Jock’s life, as he had known it. They 
learned of his open countenance and kindly 
heart, and of the merry pranks he used to play 
on his brother officers until they declared he 
cared for nothing but fun ; and of how they had 
changed their minds when they learned to know 
his simple-hearted manliness, how he scorned a 
lie or a mean action, and was not ashamed to 
confess his Master before men. 

The children were deeply impressed, and it 
was a grievance to Muriel that she could not go 
with her brother to tell the story to Tom Baker. 

Cuthbert found Tom in the stable-yard, sur- 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 9 

rounded by a litter of bull-pups which were oc- 
cupying his entire attention. Out of the yard 
Tom gave his young master the most respectful 
service ; inside of it, however, he accepted with 
a proper sense of the fitness of things, the defer- 
ence which Cuthbert paid to his superior knowl- 
edge. After the dogs had been put through 
their tricks and been duly admired, and put 
back in their kennels, Cuthbert began his story. 

Save for one or two questions, Tom listened 
in silence until the end, but his small eyes 
sparkled and his homely face flushed as the little 
boy sprang to his feet, crying : 

“Can’t you just think you’re there, Tom? 
The shots pinging on every side, those black 
creatures screaming and yelling, our men doing 
their duty nobly, and Jock, over in one corner, 
his coat over his poor legs, encouraging them 
by every brave word he could think of! That 
was being a hero, Tom — I’d like to be a hero 
and do some great deed — wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ Well,” said Tom, slowly, “ I’m afeard I 
couldn’t never be a ’ero — leastways I couldn’t 
dash out gallant like ; but I could ’ang on like 


to In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer . 

one o’ them there bull-pups ef I thought t’was 
my dooty to. But I don’t never expect to be a 
sodger, though I'd like to — ef you was.” 

Tom was several years older than Cuthbert 
and learned in the mysteries of dog training, so 
his little master’s heart swelled with pride at this 
delicate compliment. “Just wait till I grow up, 
Tom,” he cried, his little fair face flushing. 
“ Papa has promised that I shall go in the army, 
and I’ll take you with me as my squire. Ah ! 
I thought you’d like that. Now don’t you 
think we’d better begin right away to practise — 
so we’ll be used to such things before we grow 
up ? I wish we knew how to drill.” 

“ My sister’s ’usband’s cousin’s son’s a sodger,” 
broke in Tom, “ and he’s got a little book as 
tells all about it. I can get it off him an’ we 
can drill out o’ that.” 

“ All right ! that’ll be jolly,” cried Cuthbert, 
delightedly ; so the boys parted with the under- 
standing that Tom should get the book on mil- 
itary tactics and that the first drill should take 
place the next -afternoon in a quiet corner of the 
grounds. 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 1 1 

True to his word, Tom appeared with the 
book the next afternoon and the drilling began 
— such drilling ! sticks represented firearms, and 
the officer and private set all military etiquette 
at defiance. 

Lent was almost over, and Easter near at 
hand. The beautiful park about the Priory was 
putting on its spring dress of verdant green, 
everything in nature was waking up from the 
long winter sleep — and the early out-door flow- 
ers were poking their heads above the short 
grass. The children at the Priory were learning 
their Easter carols, and their young voices rang 
blithely through the old house. 

A tablet which hung on the walls of the little 
old church near by stated that “ Margaret Dev- 
ereux Chaloner, wife of Julian Chaloner, esquire,” 
had fallen asleep in Christ’ June 18 — .” 
That was when baby Margie was but three 
weeks old, and now she was six years, and in 
that time sister Hilary and great-aunt Helen had 
done their best to supply the mother’s vacant 
place, but Hilary was very young and aunt 
Helen very old, and Mr. Chaloner’s occupation 


12 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

of barrister kept him often away from home. 
And so it came that Muriel and Cuthbert were 
more self-willed than they should have been 
and read more story books than their lessons, 
and that Margie was a spoiled darling. 

It had been the mother’s rule to gather the 
children about the organ in the early evening 
hour and to teach them their Easter carols, so 
Hilary did it in these pleasant spring evenings. 

They made a pretty group to aunt Helen’s 
loving eyes as she sat in the low window seat — 
Hilary at the organ, dear little Margie close be- 
side her, and on the other side Muriel and Cuth- 
bert with arms about each other — all joining 
heartily in the beautiful Easter hymn. 

Colonel Erskine sometimes sat with them at 
this hour, and he enjoyed the little glimpse of 
home life it gave him. 

One afternoon a week or two after the boys 
had begun to drill, the colonel ran across them 
on his way to the house, and Cuthbert, with some 
blushes, explained what they were doing. 

“All right, lads,” said the old soldier. “ I hope 
you’ll both live to grow up and enter the army. 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer . 13 

I have no doubt but that you’ll serve her majes- 
ty right loyally — but in the meantime don’t for- 
get that you are soldiers already and under the 
grandest Captain that anyone could serve.” 

Tom looked mystified, but after a moment’s 
hesitation Cuthbert asked, shyly, “You mean in 
baptism, don’t you ? ” 

“Yes,” answered the colonel, “and if you ad- 
mire Jock’s behavior, how much more must the 
brave and beautiful example of Jesus Christ at- 
tract you. It was the example of his Saviour 
that gave Jock strength to be brave, and if you 
want to be the right kind of soldier you must 
drill yourselves now in truthfulness and honor 
and pure-heartedness. Without these qualities 
you will never be good soldiers either to your 
God or your queen. I’m an old man, boys, and 
I’ve seen more active service than may fall to 
either of you. I’ve borne the heat and burden 
of the day and I’ve won some distinction, and — 
remember my words — all the good there is in 
me, and all I’ve ever been able to do in my life, 
have been through the grace of my Master, Jesus 
Christ.” The old soldier bared his head rever- 


14 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

ently. “You know your motto, Cuthbert — ‘In 
the sign of the Cross thou shalt conquer ’ — and 
that means that you can conquer the sin and 
evil, within and without you, only by remember- 
ing all that Christ endured for you on that cross, 
and by obeying His commands. He is our Su- 
perior Officer, you know. Thanks for your at- 
tention, lads.” And with a military salute which 
was so unexpected that the boys were unable to 
respond in time, he walked rapidly away. 

Cuthbert and Tom looked at each other. 
“ What he says is straight eno’,” said Tom, pres- 
ently, in an unusually subdued tone. “S’pose 
we try it, master Bertie. It’ll no hurt us. It’ll 
sort o’ ’elp us for the sodgerin’.” 

“ Maybe it will,” answered Cuthbert — then, 
his eyes lighting up with a sudden thought, he 
added quickly, “We’ll try to to be good and 
holy, and never tell a lie nor do a wicked thing — 
like the Knights of the Holy Grail.” 

“ I dunno nothin’ ’bout no ’oly Grail,” said 
Tom, who could not always follow the flights of 
Cuthbert’s imagination ; “ but I can try to keep 
from tellin’ lies.” 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 15 

“That’ll be right, that’s what I mean,” re- 
marked Cuthbert, a little impatiently. “And we 
never answered the colonel’s salute, Tom! See 
how well I can do it.” Straightening up, with 
both arms flattened to his side, he brought his 
right hand to his forehead with a stiff, galvanic 
jerk, in exact imitation of Tom’s “ sister’s hus- 
band’s cousin’s son’s ” style, as taught by Tom 
himself. 

The boys did try to do better for the next ten 
days, Cuthbert in the big house, and Tom at 
home and in the stable-yard, with more com- 
fortable results than usual to those who came in 
contact with them. Muriel was in the secret 
and she understood why Cuthbert kept his big 
dog Hector out of the drawing-room without 
getting angry when aunt Helen objected to 
having him there, and why his lessons were 
so much more perfect than they used to be, 
and, unconsciously at first, she began to be 
influenced by his example. She knew, too, 
why Tom made no more spring traps to catch 
the rabbits that did not belong to him, and 
gave his best bull-pup in a “swap,” instead 


1 6 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

of the second best, as he would have done 
a week before. 

Mr. Chaloner was very much pleased with the 
report which was given on his next visit home, 
and he told his son that if he kept as good a 
record until Easter Day he would give him a 
pony for his very own. 

Cuthbert’s delight knew no bounds. After 
telling Muriel he rushed down to impart the 
good news to Tom. Dogs and horses were the 
joy of Tom’s existence, and he rejoiced as much 
at the prospect of another horse to help care for 
as Cuthbert could desire. 

“I’ve a whole week yet,” said Cuthbert, a little 
dubiously. “ I do hope I’ll get through it all 
right — you know a week from to-morrow will 
be Easter Sunday.” 

“ I’m no afeard but you’ll get the ’orse,” was 
Tom’s confident assurance. And as the days 
went on it seemed as if Cuthbert would. He 
was so gentle and obedient that everybody 
praised him, and all went well until the Satur- 
day before Easter Day. Hilary and Muriel had 
gone to the sewing school in the village, and 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 17 

aunt Helen was in her own room writing letters. 
Cuthbert felt very happy, he was so sure of get- 
ting the horse. Tom and he had walked over 
to a farm in the neighborhood the afternoon be- 
fore to look at a pony which they concluded 
would be just the one for the little boy. It was 
jet-black, with bright eyes, and a white star in 
its forehead, and answered to the name of 
Dandy. 

All these particulars suited Cuthbert, and his 
mind was more on his future property than on 
the verses he was learning as he sat in his favo- 
rite place on the stairs studying his Easter 
lesson, looking up every now and then to 
mark the progress of a radiant patch of color as 
it travelled up a slender marble pedestal which 
stood in a corner of the hall and rested as if lov- 
ingly on the exquisite Daphne it supported. 
The beautiful piece of statuary had arrived the 
night before, and was intended as an Easter gift 
from aunt Helen to papa, who was expected 
home that afternoon. 

Cuthbert laid his hand over a verse and stud- 
ied it aloud. “Christ our Passover is sacri- 


1 8 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

ficed for us, therefore let us keep the feast ; not 
with the old leaven, neither with the leaven of 
malice and wickedness ; but with the unleavened 
bread of sincerity and truth.” He knew the 
meaning of the words ; aunt Helen had ex- 
plained it very clearly to Muriel and himself, 
and Colonel Erskine had told them the story of 
the crucifixion and resurrection so that the chil- 
dren’s hearts had thrilled within them. But to- 
day thoughts of Dandy kept coming between 
him and the words, and when he heard Tom’s 
voice through the open door of the housekeeper’s 
room he laid his prayer-book down on the stairs 
and racing after him invited his friend to come 
up for a few minutes. 

Tom wanted very much to accept, but he hes- 
itated. “I do no think lady ‘Ullun’ wud loike 
it,” he said.” 

Cuthbert knew it was forbidden, but he wanted 
to ha.ve his own way and he answered quickly, 
“ Oh, aunt Helen won’t mind — come on, Tom. 
I tell you she won’t mind — I am sure.” So 
nothing loth Tom came, for the first time, into 
the fine old hall. They sat on the stairs and 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 19 

talked about Dandy, then seeing how Tom’s 
eyes roved everywhere Cuthbert showed him the 
wonders of the place. The beautiful old window 
with its cross and motto stirred even Tom’s slow 
imagination. Cuthbert made him stand in dif- 
ferent positions so as to see it all to the best ad- 
vantage, and, how it exactly happened he never 
knew, in stepping back Cuthbert knocked up 
against the slender marble pedestal and tipped 
it violently against the wall. The boys hastily 
set the column straight, but, alas ! one of 
Daphne’s uplifted arms lay on the floor in sev- 
eral pieces ! 

“ Oh, Tom ! ” cried Cuthbert, in a frightened 
voice. “ It is broken ! Oh ! what shall I do ! 
Aunt Helen will be so angry and so will papa. 
Oh ! Tom, I shall lose my pony ! ” Throwing 
himself down on the stairs he burst out crying, 
while Tom looked on in dismay. 

“ Tell ’er it wor a haxcident ! ” he said, pres- 
ently. “ It’s only a stone Agger — she’ll forgi’ 
yo\” 

“You don’t understand,” returned Cuthbert, 
impatiently. “ It came from Italy and cost a lot 


20 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

of money, and it was an Easter present for papa 
— and if you hadn’t come it wouldn’t have hap- 
pened, and now papa will not let me have Dandy 
— the very last day, too. I wish you hadn’t 
come, Tom.” 

“ Yo’ axed me — I thought yo’ wanted me,” 
said Tom, humbly. “Wudno the squire forgi’ 
yo’ if yo’ told the truth ? ” 

“ He’d forgive me but he wouldn’t give me 
the horse — you know I disobeyed aunt Helen. 
Oh ! Tom, I can't tell him.” 

A shade of disappointment stole over Tom’s 
face, then the distress in the flushed, tearful 
countenance of his little master touched his 
heart. He thought of Dandy and of Cuthbert’s 
intense desire to possess him ; his ruddy face 
lost some of its color; he looked at the cross 
above his head, then he laid his hand on Cuth- 
bert’s shoulder. 

“ Stop yo’ tears, master Bertie,” he said. 
“ Yo shan’t lose Dandy. I’ll tak’ a’ the blame.” 

At first Cuthbert vehemently refused to even 
hear of such a thing, but Tom persisted, and 
when he went away later, Tom’s last words were 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 21 

— “ Do no yo’ be afeard to say it, sur, I’ll never 
tell, be sure. I can ’ang on, yo’ know.” And 
the statue of Daphne was turned to the wall in 
such a position that the broken arm did not 
show ! 

Cuthbert was so unhappy that afternoon that 
he could settle himself to nothing. He avoided 
Muriel and would not stir out of the house for 
fear of meeting Tom. Long years after he re- 
membered that Easter Saturday, and the strug- 
gle for evil or good within him. His father’s 
arrival increased his unhappiness, and he acted 
so strangely that aunt Helen feared he was ill 
and Muriel did not know what to make of him. 

At last the dreaded moment arrived, when 
aunt Helen led her nephew into the hall to view 
his Easter gift. One glance was enough to dis-' 
cover the mutilated condition of the beautiful 
statue. Aunt Helen was astonished and grieved, 
Mr. Chaloner very angry, and the servants were 
hastily called together and questioned. Cuth- 
bert hung behind Hilary — a new element had 
been added to his unhappiness besides the fear 
of losing Dandy — papa seemed to be so proud 


22 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

of his good behavior, how could he tell him how 
naughty he had been ! 

He slipped away into the drawing-room and 
buried his face in a sofa cushion. And then 
suddenly there came into his mind the words of 
one of his Easter verses : “ Neither with the 

leaven of malice and wickedness ; but with the 
unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.” A 
sense of deep shame came over the little boy. 
Ah ! a fine Knight of the Holy Grail was he, — 
a brave soldier — when he was afraid to tell the 
truth for fear of punishment — but not ashamed 
to let some one else tell a falsehood to clear him ! 
And he had wanted to be as brave as Jock and 
as true a follower of the dear Lord as was Colo- 
nel Erskine, and here he had denied Him — at 
Easter, too ! “ In the sign of the Cross thou 

shalt conquer,” a voice seemed to whisper the 
words in the boy’s ear and give him strength. 

Springing up he ran into the hall — not a min- 
ute too soon — Tom had been called up from the 
stable-yard and he stood before Mr. Chaloner, 
pale, but with an expression of determination on 
his face worthy of a better cause. 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 23 

“ No use to deny it, Tom,” Mr. Chaloner was 
saying. “ The housekeeper says you were in 
here this afternoon — where you had no business 
to be — and you only could have done the dam- 
age” 

Tom opened his mouth to answer, but before 
his slow tongue could form the words he in- 
tended to say a little figure darted to his side. 

“ I did the mischief, papa, not Tom,” said 
Cuthbert, distinctly, laying his hand on Tom’s 
arm. “ Oh ! papa, I’m not a good boy at all. I 
disobeyed aunt Helen — I asked Tom to come 
in the hall. And I was willing to let him tell a 
lie for me so I could get the prize you offered.” 

“ Oh, master Bertie, do no’ yo’ say that,” broke 
in Tom, while Muriel came over and stood close 
to her brother’s side. 

“ I haven’t been a brave soldier at all — I’ve 
been mean and cowardly,” went on the little 
voice, trying to steady itself. “ I know I won’t 
have Dandy ; but I don’t care, if only you’ll for- 
give me.” Cuthbert’s lips were quivering ; the 
eyes he lifted to his father’s face were brimming 
with tears and most appealing. 


24 In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 

The grieved expression on Mr. Chaloner’s 
face was succeeded by a tender one as he drew 
the little boy into his arms and kissed him in 
forgiveness. 

“ Now ask Tom’s forgiveness,” whispered 
Hilary, and in an instant Cuthbert’s arms were 
around Tom’s neck. “ Oh, Tom,” he cried, hug- 
ging him violently, “ I’m not fit to be anyone’s 
officer, we’ll just be common soldiers together — 
and try to help each other to be brave.” 

Tom blushed until the tears stood in his eyes 
and blurted out, bluntly, “Yo’ll alius be my 
hofificer — or nobody else. Seems to me yo’re 
more of a hofificer now nor before.” Then he 
rushed out of the hall, covered with confusion. 

•Hs * sK * * 

The Easter sun shone soft and warm through 
the windows of the little church, and as the choir 
sang “ Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us ; 
therefore let us keep the feast ; not with the old 
leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and wick- 
edness; but with the unleavened bread of sin- 
cerity and truth,” a glad, thankful feeling came 


In This Sign Thou Shalt Conquer. 25 

into Cuthbert’s heart that he had confessed his 
naughtiness and been forgiven. 

The Easter joy rested upon him, and he 
smiled up at Muriel, then across at Tom, who sat 
in the servants’ pew. And regardless of the 
housekeeper’s sharp eyes Tom saluted in fine 
military style. 




























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